The Good Soldier (NIN)
by taralkariel
Summary: The Winter Soldier fails his mission - he pulls his target to safety instead of killing him. Memories flash through his mind as he tries to make sense of who he is, and what his place is in the world. Set immediately after Captain America 2: The Winter Soldier (spoilers), following Bucky from the shores of the Potomac to the Smithsonian and beyond.
1. Gunfire in the street

**A/N: Sebby Stan as Bucky Barnes officially put me in Marvel's camp and not DC's, so I couldn't resist exploring the character further. I hope you'll enjoy spending time in his head as much as I am. Steve will show up from time to time, but I'm not going to give Bucky a lady friend because I want him all to myself :) Chapter titles from "The Good Soldier" by Nine Inch Nails. I own nothing.**

**Gunfire in the street where we used to meet**

The sound of destruction is deafening. The glass structure under his feet begins to move. His left arm, still useful, automatically grasps the steel frame that has been supporting him as he watches the domed assembly fall away, taking the man who was his mission with it. The muscles in his shoulder scream, his weight stressing the flesh connections to his prosthesis. He ignores the sensation, eyes fixed on the man swiftly disappearing into the debris-ridden waters of the Potomac. He hesitates a moment longer before his metallic fingers release and he, too, falls away from the doomed helicarrier.

Cold water closes over his head, his body momentarily senseless from the impact. Swimming is difficult without the use of his right arm, and the limited use of his left. He makes it to the surface nonetheless and gasps for air briefly before diving again. Something distantly similar to panic makes itself felt as he is forced to surface and dive three more times before finding what he sought. His steel fingers tighten on the fabric of the man's uniform, and he kicks them away from the still-raining debris.

The trip to shore is slow and exhausting. He cannot be sure, in the constant pain coursing through his body as he swims, but feels his right shoulder must be dislocated and several ribs are at least bruised, if not broken. Still, he kicks on, using his arms as best he can despite the pain to keep himself and the unconscious man near the surface. At last, his boots make contact with the riverbed, and he is able to walk onto the shore, dragging his cargo until both are free of the water. He stands above him, looking down intently. The man's mouth opens, releasing water, and he inhales without coughing. He turns away.

_"__Bucky?"_

The voice, so strangely unfamiliar and familiar simultaneously, echoes through his head as leaves and underbrush crunch under his boots. He cradles his right arm to his chest using his left, and limps a little. Water still drips off of him and his feet are freezing in his waterlogged boots.

_"__Who the hell is Bucky?"_

He can hear his own voice as though he were not the one speaking. The other man's face is crestfallen at his response, the image of him flashing before his eyes. In the momentary blindness, he stumbles. He reaches out, foolishly, with his usually good right arm. Though his hand catches onto a tree, he must release it quickly and allow himself to sink to the ground to avoid crying out.

_"__Bucky!"_

The voice repeats, and he shakes his head violently. Dislodging it is unsuccessful. The memory is like most of his memories: disconnected. Had he seen that man before being sent to deal with him today? He doesn't know. He looked around himself, but the woods appear empty. They are still. He can dimly hear the river, where he left the man, some hundreds of yards away. There is not another sound. He failed his mission. The building of his enemies is destroyed, but so are the helicarriers of his … His thoughts circle, trying to define them. Allies? Masters? He does not know that, either. Do they still exist? Or were they brought down today because he failed? He discovers that he doesn't want to go back to the vault to be fixed by them. They may kill him for his failure. Has he failed before? Will he still be considered an asset if he has?

_"__James Buchanan Barnes."_

The name leaps into his mind unbidden. Only one man has called him a name. Those whom he works with ask him to do his job, to shape the century, but do not address him. They often do not maintain eye contact for long. They do not behave like the man he was sent to kill. What does that mean? Disconnected visions pass through his mind, and he holds his head in both hands until they cease. He should return to his handlers. Surely they can make the visions stop and give him some peace. Perhaps he needs to be trained again so he does not get distracted on a mission by men who give him a name and look at him as though they are allies.

_"__But I knew him."_

His own, adamant voice weaves through his thoughts. A searing pain follows the voice and he presses his hands harder against his skull, muffling a scream. He rocks back and forth, stilling his thoughts. He is sure that he cannot go back, not now. Not right away. Resolution calms his mind and he climbs unsteadily to his feet. This is not a safe place to stay, not in his state. He walks again, his limp decreasing as he moves, though his arm he still cradles to his chest.

His clothes are getting dry. The sun is still high overhead, though soon it will dip below the tree line. His boots are still cold and damp, though. He knows that is an issue he must address before he can sleep. He doesn't know where he is, or how thick these woods are. He is grateful that his mind has been untroubled for a few hours. His movements are slow and he cannot be sure that he has been going in the same direction for his entire trek. He is thirsty. He has several times reached for a canteen that he is not sure he has ever worn. He feels purposeless and unsure of himself, which he cannot recall feeling before. He stops walking. He listens. The voice of a stream reaches his ears and he moves in that direction.

After drinking his fill, his mind awakens again, strange visions tearing through his consciousness. He holds very still to keep from falling into the stream. The thoughts pass and he moves away from the water slowly, surveying his surroundings. A tree with particularly large branches leans over the tributary. He eyes it carefully, then runs toward it, jumping at the last moment. A guttural sound escapes him as he must use both hands to grip the branches. Gritting his teeth, he pulls himself onto a bough and leans against the tree, breathing hard. Before he has really caught his breath, the pain and exhaustion overwhelm him and he sleeps.

* * *

_He leapt onto the roof of a car, using his momentum to plunge his left hand through the window and remove the traitor. He tossed him easily into the other lane, immediately being struck by another vehicle. He turned and again reached with his left hand, this time through the windshield. He grabbed the wheel and wrenched it free, tossing it to the side. Gunfire came toward him from inside and they slammed on the brakes. He leapt away as quickly as he came, landing on the hood of his men's vehicle, watching the car veer out of control. When the car containing his two targets flipped, he saw that his quarry had escaped the wreckage. The van stopped and he walked toward his targets. He fired at the man, who put up his shield and was flung from the overpass._

_A bullet glanced off his eye protection, leaving cracks. He removed them, aiming his weapons at the threat. She had moved and shot at him again. She ran and he jumped down to follow, ordering his men to find the other target. He listened and could hear her voice faintly, and moved silently toward the source. He quietly rolled a grenade toward the sound. When it exploded, she appeared suddenly in the opposite direction and attacked him. It is not difficult to thwart her; she is well-trained but much smaller and weaker than he. Speed would be her only ally if he were not trained better than she. A large man came to her rescue. He could be more of a challenge._

_The fight was fast and intense; he had to work hard to keep an upper hand, knives flying through the air. He found himself rolling away, having been thrown, and the mask protecting his face fell off in the process. He quickly got to his feet and stood ready for the impending attack, but none came. The man stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky?" he gasped._

_ "__Who the hell is Bucky?" he replied. He was knocked down suddenly by someone else's kick. The third man from the vehicle. Standing, he stared at the other man intently, something niggling at the back of his mind. An RPG flies past him and he, knowing he has been outmatched, sought cover to regroup._

* * *

He awakens with a gasp, fingers digging into the bark of the tree to keep his balance as he remembered where he was. A cold sweat covers him, mingling with the little remaining river water. "I knew him," he whispers, wondering how he is able to recall that mission, and how long ago it had happened.

**A/N** **Please read and review!**


	2. Echoes out a beat and the base goes bomb

**A/N: Wow, I was not expecting such an immediate response. Thanks for all the followers! Here is chapter 2 :) Please read and review!**

**2. Echoes out a beat when the bass goes "bomb"**

_The snow crunched under his boots, the wind whipping through his long hair, as he moved through the blizzard. He was glad of the protection his goggles and mask provided from the bitter elements. There were three guns and five knives attached to his person, all at different access points should he need them. He held a shotgun in his remaining hand, which he cocked as he advanced. There were lights ahead, dimly visible through the snow. He slowed his steps and crouched, so his dark form would not be as noticeable among the shadows caused by the storm._

_When he reached the wooden structure, he pressed his back against it, breathing slowly. Voices could be heard inside, some sort of argument if the tone was any indication. He leaned gradually toward the yellow light of the window, listening intently. He saw a table near the window, with three men wearing civilian attire sitting around it. The first was short and fat, balding and clearly out of breath from the heat of the argument; early fifties, two hundred fifty pounds, five foot nine. No challenge there. The second was a tall man of impressive build, his muscular arms folded over and equally defined chest; late forties, two hundred pounds, six foot one. It would be best to get rid of him first. The third was some kind of underling to the men, for he exuded meekness; early twenties, one hundred eighty pounds, five foot eleven. It was possible that he might defend himself with more assertiveness, and was a younger and fitter man than the others. He would need to be watched._

_He peered further into the room, looking for other threats. The wind picked up and he could no longer hear the conversation in front of him. There were seven guards on the other side of the room, near the door, wearing thick layers but no body armor. Surely they would not be so foolish as to leave the window unprotected. He backed up, out of sight, and looked into the storm in search of backup or a trap. There was no sign of another living thing out there, but he was not reckless. He turned to the window once more and lifted his weapon, discharging it directly into the heart of the tall man. Ignoring the ensuing chaos, he shoved his left arm through the broken glass and pulled out the young man; the fat man would have been a challenge to get through the window._

_He held a knife to the man's throat with his living hand, arm crossed over chest and knife held backward to cover the surface. His left hand held the firearm and he squeezed the trigger several times. The fat man and a guard crumpled the first time; then another guard, then two more. The others had more successfully taken cover. He was dimly aware of the young man screaming things at him, but he did not imagine them to be relevant. Tossing his gun aside, he pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it into the building. He released his hostage to duck and turn away as glass and other shrapnel exploded toward him. When he stood, the young man lay on his back, bleeding into the snow. He bent to examine the wounds and was satisfied that he would not survive them. He turned from the devastation and walked back into the blizzard, as silently as he had come._

* * *

_He sat in a café on the street. He wore a black leather jacket to cover his arm, as well as gloves. His face was bare, which was rare on a mission. It would have attracted attention if covered, however. He was drinking coffee, slowly, not wanting it to affect how well he could perform his task. An old man sat at a table nearby, reading a paper; early sixties, one hundred ninety pounds, five foot ten. He looked harmless enough, but was a high ranking spy and could certainly defend himself. To an extent. There were many people walking the streets, and a half dozen in tables around them. He had no way of knowing who might engage him if he revealed his intentions._

_He studied the patrons of the café carefully. It would be unlikely that none of them were bodyguards for the old man, though they could easily be hidden among the people milling about, many of whom had not gone far from the café since the old man had arrived. Some were legitimately shopping, he supposed, but an open attack was unwise. He turned his attention back to the street, watching the occasional car pass by._

_When he saw that for which he looked, he reached for his coffee, and convincingly spilt a small amount into his lap. Swearing in French, he picked up his napkin and pressed it against the stain, simultaneously pressing a finger on the trigger of the gun he had taped to the bottom of the table when he had arrived some hours before. It was silenced, but he was glad of the distraction caused by a honking motorist. His support team had arrived. He glanced at the old man, who had fortunately leaned back against his chair from the force of the bullet and appeared to be looking at the sky. It would take a moment before anyone noticed he was dead. Long enough to leave unnoticed._

* * *

_He sat in the back of a van, leaning forward on his knees. There were men seated on the other side of the vehicle, but none came close to him. He was cleaning one of his guns while he waited. They all jolted as the vehicle hit a pothole, and his gun nearly left his hand. He closed his metallic fingers more tightly around it, watching intently as small dents began to appear under his fingers. He stopped squeezing and returned to cleaning. He became aware of silence on the part of his fellow passengers, and looked up to find them watching him. He lifted an eyebrow and they hastily resumed their conversations, eyes carefully averted._

_At last, they came to a halt. The agent closest to the door opened it and they poured out. He rose more slowly and stepped out, surveying his surroundings. They moved quietly down an alley, their goal lying behind the door ahead. He followed the men, but looked for other exits their quarry might take. He stopped some yards back from the others and watched silently as they prepared to break the door down. Using hand signals, they lined up in front of it. The leader glanced back at him and he nodded. Before any of the agents could react, the door came bursting forth, knocking aside several of them. A car was the cause of this, and it ran over four men. He crouched and jumped as it approached, tires squealing._

_He jumped, his left hand caught the groove above the windshield, and he swung his body against the roof of the car. They veered around a turn and he held on with both hands, cursing his poor intel on this assignment as they sped away. He could hear gunshots below and quickly pulled his feet forward to reduce his size. With his feet under him, he released his hold enough to reach forward and break the windshield with his left hand. Glass flew everywhere and he leaned forward to reach in with his right hand, which held a knife. His attention must have wavered, for he was unprepared for jolt caused by another pothole. The car veered immediately around another corner and he could not regain purchase. He rolled off, and looked around for a mode of transport._

_The car had not made it more than two blocks from him before he was again in pursuit, having taken a scooter from a terrified onlooker. He hadn't killed him. That wasn't the mission, and he did not know how much of his ammo he would need, since his team had failed and was nowhere in sight. Time was also a factor. He sped after the car, steering with his right hand and using his left to shoot. It absorbed the shock better, so did not affect his balance. The back window of the vehicle shattered and he could see that the passengers were hunkered down behind their seats._

_The driver was a canny one; more than his own men. They did not attempt to outmaneuver him, which would have been impossible, but instead kept straight on their road, gaining speed. His teeth bared behind his mask as he pushed his vehicle to its limits. They were escaping. He would complete his mission. He always did. He pulled out his pistol and shot their back tire. The car rolled. It fell off the road and down the slope._

_He carefully slowed to a stop, watching the precipice for any movement. He left the scooter behind, approaching the edge of the street silently. He could hear the desperate sound of voices and crouched low, looking over. A woman in black body armor had been the driver. She had pulled the target and herself from the wreckage, and was holding them against the slope perpendicular to the road. Momentum from the vehicle must have carried them further along. She looked up, but did not see him. He knelt slowly, resting his arm on his knee to steady his shot. It was a long one. He waited until she began to climb, until there was a gap in the armor, then fired. Just once. The bullet went through her and into the heart of the other man. He rose from his spot and walked back to the city._


	3. Right over my head, step over the dead

**A/N****: thanks for all the followers! I hope you continue to enjoy it. Please read and review!**

**3. Right over my head, step over the dead**

He awakens with a start. This is unwise, as the movement reawakens a thousand pains and aches in his body and he lets out a low moan. Strange dreams have troubled his sleep. Perhaps they are memories. They felt very real. But he doesn't know. He slowly extends one leg, then the other, careful not to lose his balance as he deals with the stiffness in his muscles. His right arm aches intently and he can barely move it. Sighing, he removes his belt with his left hand and fastens it around his injured arm. He looks around, then swings the other end of his belt over a nearby branch. He catches it on the other side and positions himself carefully. When he is sure it will pull his arm in the direction he needs it to go, he begins to pull. His teeth grind together as he bites back a scream, and keeps pulling. His right arm extends to an impossible length and he can feel it move back into place. With a grunt, he releases his belt and begins moving his right arm gingerly. It appears to be in the right place.

He drops to the ground carefully. It is dark. He finds the stream again and drinks, cupping the cool water in his aching hand. His clothes are dry. His socks are still wet, but his boots are mostly dry. He sits down and removes his socks, then puts his boots back on. His toes curl in the comparative warmth of them. He knows he will regret the removal in time, especially as he begins to walk again. The boots will chafe if he goes too far.

He has only walked a few yards when he hears a buzzing. Holding very still, he listens as the buzzing grows louder. He turns his torso so he can face the source without his feet moving. A bright light can be seen flickering through the trees. He frowns in thought as the light drew closer. A helicopter, he decides. Conducting a manhunt, most likely. He swears softly. Maybe they have not found the other man yet, but he suspects that they look for him. He should not have lingered here so long.

He walks in the direction of the light, trying to be as stealthy as possible. If he can sneak past it, it is unlikely that they will go over the same ground twice. This leads him back the way he has come, back to the river, but he thinks it is the best option. The brush crunches rhythmically under his boots as he keeps his eyes trained on the light. It follows a predictable grid pattern. He does not anticipate it being difficult to avoid.

Suddenly, the sound doubles and a second light appears less than a dozen yards from him. Startled, he drops and rolls into the space beneath one of the larger trees. The impact on his shoulder, despite the roll, makes him grunt and he sees black spots forming before his eyes. He blinks repeatedly, in hopes of dislodging them, but they spread. Soon everything is black.

* * *

_He lay back on the leather chair, metal restraints holding both of his arms to the chair. His legs were free, but his head was surrounded by something metal. A guard was in his mouth, and he could feel his own screams just receding from his throat. He had fought the restraints, but the pain was gone and he lay still. Men came forward and released him. They took care not to touch him if avoidable. He sat up when they moved away and slowly got to his feet. Without a word, they led him down a corridor and into a room that seemed familiar. In the center of it, there was a structure resembling a coffin. He looked at it dubiously, then looked at the men who had taken him here. They were tense, not meeting his eye, and shifting uncomfortably, especially those closest to the door._

_ "__What now?" he pressed._

_His voice seemed to surprise them, but one spoke up. The highest ranking man. "Orders are for you to get in," he said shortly._

_He looked back at the structure. Many tubes and apparatus attached to it. He moved slowly toward it, glancing at the men. He climbed in. It was cold and not very comfortable. Before he could change his mind, two of the men slammed a cover, with a narrow window over his face, down around him. The sound of air being released was deafening and he had the briefest moment to panic before losing consciousness._

* * *

_Waking up in the coffin structure was not pleasant. He felt warmth before he was truly awake, but the cover was still attached when he opened his eyes. There was not room for him to use his metal arm to much advantage in escaping. The cover was lifted off before he could consider other options. Men stood around him, different ones from before. They did not look at him or come close, either. He climbed out, surprised at the weakness of his legs. They buckled, but he caught himself and was able to keep moving forward. _

_Gear was placed on a nearby table. He dressed himself while the men ignored him. He was vaguely aware that the gear changed from mission to mission. The clothes today were wool and leather, so he must be going somewhere cold. It took some time to fasten the holsters, harnesses, and belt over the leather shirt. Once finished, he leaned against the table to wait for orders. They were not long in coming._

_A small man with squinty eyes and round glasses came in through the door. "I am glad to see you are ready, Winter Soldier," he said, his voice accented. His face seemed somehow familiar. "Come with me, and we will brief you." He followed and listened carefully as his target and its location were described. A team of six would escort him, but, as usual, he would mainly be working alone. The target was on a train. He would need to board the train and kill the target. As little collateral damage as possible was requested._

_They left immediately. A personnel carrier took them to their destination. It took a while. He did not know where they were going or where they had started. It was irrelevant. He knew the terrain for his mission, what else mattered? They stood on a ridge, the train tracks at the bottom of the canyon below. Something niggled at the back of his mind, some kind of recognition. He pushed it aside. The train had not yet arrived and they needed to prepare._

* * *

_He stood beside the train tracks, having repelled down to the base of the canyon. Three of his men had joined him, the other three remained higher up and would zip line onto the train. He did not waver as the train's light bathed its path and made him clearly visible. Its horn sounded and it rushed passed him, the wind stirring his hair. He nodded to his men, who used grappling hooks to leap aboard. He did not need one. He reached out with his left hand and caught the railing between two cars. He was swept off his feet, and ignored the pain in his remaining flesh on the left side. He swung himself onto the walkway and pressed himself against the wall, trying to keep out of sight._

_He listened and could hear the three men landing on the roof. They would prevent their quarry from escaping. The other three were at the other end of the car. He unholstered two pistols and took a deep breath to relax his muscles. He kicked the door down and shot into the car, aiming carefully. The target was down. Two others were as well. "Don't move," he bellowed and the remaining passengers froze in terror. He walked over to his target and made sure he would not survive the encounter._

_When he had finished, he went to the other end of the car to join his team. They jumped one by one from the train, rolling to cushion the fall. He stood and watched it continue on its journey before beginning the walk back to their vehicle._

_A long ride later, he had arrived again at his first location. He was not taken to the same room, but was instead taken down the hall to a room with a leather chair. An unpleasantness filled his mind as he viewed it, but he sat down as he was bidden. Metal restraints were fastened over his arms, though his legs were left free. He placed a mouth guard between his teeth and lay back, feeling something cold and metal fasten around his head. Pain exploded in his mind and he screamed._


	4. Remember what you said

4. Remember what you said

He awakens abruptly, the visions still strong in his mind. He rubs his face with his real hand, noticing distantly that it does not ache to move quite as much as before. He had collapsed in the underbrush beneath the tree. It is still dark, but he cannot hear anything or see any lights. They have missed him somehow. He gets to his feet wearily. It is time to leave this place.

As he walks, he considers his dreams. Hallucinations. Whatever they were. He remembers the room with the chair vividly, as well as the one with the chamber where he slept. Somehow, he begins to feel that his time there was longer than he had previously thought. He can't remember ever wondering about that before. He had awoken to a mission and slept after. There was nothing else to consider or question. So why is he questioning now? He grimaces bitterly. Because his handlers are gone and he is on his own.

What had they done to him in that chair? For how long? Why were his memories returning? Was the procedure temporary? He has a feeling that he does not want to remember more. It was irrelevant. He was a highly trained assassin. Did it really matter who had employed him? Surely there are others who would take their place. He has only to find them.

He rubs his face again with his right hand, feeling the growth of stubble. There is no point in avoiding the issue in his own thoughts. He has no desire to find new employers. He does not want to be the asset anymore, a killing machine without thought or malice toward its victims. He has killed because he has been ordered. He does not care to shape another century.

Dawn is breaking. His progress away from the river becomes less erratic now that he can see his path. He moves faster, wishing he knew where he was. He needs to find a safe place to stay. To clean himself up and tend to his wounds. Then he can decide what to do with his life. Assuming that no one finds him and makes that decision for him.

_"__I'm with you until the end of the line."_

The words burst into his consciousness and he growls as he pressed his hands to his cheeks, covering his eyes. The face fills his vision unbidden and he strikes the nearest tree with his left hand, wood splintering around him. The man had just lain there, looking up at him earnestly with one eye swelling shut, asking him why he did not finish his mission. He was so familiar, the words he spoke stirring a memory just outside his reach. It is like catching at water running through his fingers.

He knew him. There is no doubt in his mind of that. What had he said? That they had known each other their whole lives? He is not sure. No memories surface except those that were recent. It must have been recent when they met and fought on the bridge. He does not think they usually wipe his memory in the middle of a mission. Why else would they have done it, unless he had made some connection they did not want him to have? He wishes he knew what that had been, but his thoughts are shifty and unfocused.

He stumbles onto a sidewalk, blinking in confusion. He has left the woods without noticing. Cars fly by a few feet from him and he curses himself for letting his guard down. He tucks his hands into his pockets to hide his metal arm as best he can, and follows the sidewalk into the city. He does not know or care what city it is; there is surely somewhere he can lay low and recover. Somewhere better than the woods, anyway.

His stomach growls. He can't remember the last time he was hungry. He supposes he was given nutrients of some sort while asleep. When he was awoken, it was expected for him to work, not waste time. He holds his arm to his stomach and wonders if he's ever stayed out from the chamber this long. Presumably he hadn't been born there, but he doesn't know what is possible.

_He lay on his belly, propped up by his elbows, in the tall grass. His tripod and rifle sat before him as he waited, staring at the road below the hill on which he was. A car approached. He looked through his scope to determine its occupants. A single shot eliminated the target._

The street is getting more crowded. Passersby give him strange looks, no doubt due to his haggard and dirty condition. When he catches them staring, they quickly look away, but many move as far away from him as the sidewalk will allow. That reaction is something with which he is rather familiar. It occurs to him as he continues into the city that he may be some kind of fugitive. It is possible that the stares were a result of wanted posters, not polite disgust. He has not changed clothes, and suspects that he had been seen at least by some other motorists on the day where he fought the man in blue on the bridge. He does not think many had seen him since then, but that does not make him safe.

He ducks down an alley and leaps up onto a fire escape, catching with his left arm and pulling himself onto the flat surface. He is disturbed to find that he needs to catch his breath for a moment before he can continue. His body protests as he gets to his feet and climbs up the ladder to the next floor. He goes up several floors before he begins to look carefully into windows. People closer to the ground would be more aware of the need to lock their windows. The view of the apartments provided is of the bathroom. He studies them quietly to assess how recently they have been occupied. On the ninth floor, there are no products in the shower or on the sink.

The window is locked. He pulls out his only remaining knife and slowly jimmies the lock until he is able to pull the window open with his left hand. His right arm is not sufficiently recovered to allow himself to lift things above his elbow height. He slides his legs over the sill and lands silently on the tile floor. He holds very still and listens for any movement in the apartment.

_"__Please, no, not like this!" An old man kneels before him, his dress uniform wrinkled and getting dirty at the gesture. He begs, arms held up in supplication._

Satisfied that no one is home, he pulls the window shut behind him and leaves the room to survey his potential haven. Outside of the bathroom, which contains a tub/shower, a toilet, and a small sink, there is a hallway to the bedroom. It is not spacious, but fit a large bed and a wooden dresser. The bed's blankets are arranged on top of it in a way that indicates haste, and the sheets have been removed. The dresser has one drawer open and one half open, with garments sticking out at odd angles. The closet is open and he is disappointed to see what appear to be female clothes. He will look more thoroughly later and possibly find something he can wear.

_ "__Please, I won't tell anyone!" The man cried as he stood above him, knife pressed against his throat. "No, you won't," he replied._

Returning to the hallway, he follows it to a room containing couches and a large screen. A television, some part of his brain supplies. A small kitchen is tucked into the corner, also showing signs of hasty leave-taking. There is a door with several locks on the inside, certainly to the hallway. He approaches it slowly and peers out the peephole to make sure he is alone. Satisfied, he goes to the refrigerator in the kitchen. It contains only water bottles and some butter. The freezer is well-stocked, however. He selects a meal at random and follows its directions for the oven. He has not used a microwave, which he recognizes as the black box in the corner, before and is too hungry to try now.

_A soft sobbing entered his ears. A little girl was hiding behind the couches. She had seen what he was sent here to do. He ended it quickly._

While his food heated, he goes back to the bedroom. He carefully searches through the clothes in the closet for anything useful. Finally, he finds a large hooded sweater in the back that he thinks might fit him. It does not appear to be tailored for a woman, at any rate. He sits on the bed and takes off his boots, hissing as he bumps the blisters caused by not wearing socks for a long march. He removes the rest of his clothes and gear, except for his pants, and arranges them near the heater to dry out any remaining bits of moisture. The sweater fits, though it is tight.

_ "__I don't want to die!" the woman yelled, desperate, when she saw him. Her wants were irrelevant._

He sits in the living room while he eats. Perhaps it is his hunger, but the food tastes amazing. He looks at the screen across from his spot quizzically when he has finished eating. There is a row of small black rectangles with buttons on them lined up on the table. Remote controls, he decides. He does not know which one to use or what they were for. He gets up and does a perimeter check, leaving the door closed to avoid notice by a neighbor. He goes to the bedroom and, collapsing on top of the bed, is soon asleep.

**A/N: Thanks for all the followers! So exciting to read my inbox every day :) Please read and review! I will try to keep updating frequently, but reviews would motivate me more!**


	5. You know the part about life

**A/N: Sorry for not posting a new chapter yesterday. I was seeing Cap 2 in IMAX several hundred miles from my house :) Hope you enjoy! Please read and review.**

**5. You know the part about life is just a waking dream**

_He was in a ship. His boots were supple and made no sound as he moved quietly down the corridor. The waves made it difficult to keep his balance; there was a storm coming. He kept his left arm close to his body, knowing it would make a noticeable sound if it touched the metal walls. With his right, he traced his fingers along the wall in search of a break. It was utterly dark. Most of the crew would be asleep._

_He extrapolated where he was from the picture of the interior he held in his head, having memorized it before being sent here. He passed the first break and continued on, momentarily drifting in the darkness until his fingers connected with the wall again on the other side of the intersection. Two more, he thought. The ship creaked as it moved; something could be heard distantly rattling down the hall as it rolled along with the floor._

_This was not an easy mission. Arriving on the ship had been difficult; he had to swim from a life raft, which his current team had brought as close to the ship as they dared. They had remained on the raft, waiting for him. No one else could have swum the distance in the cold water. His hair dripped still, and he took care to keep it from dripping on the metal floor. His clothes were less damp, as he had not worn them for the swim, bringing them in a waterproof bag. Still, he had not been able to dry his body before putting them on, so they were clammy and uncomfortable._

_It wasn't important. He reached the corridor for which he searched at last, and pulled out his knife with his left hand. He had not brought any guns, as they were become unreliable after the swim. The knife he had chosen was as long as his forearm, and jagged. The grip was leather and fit comfortably into either hand. He paused, tossing it from one hand to the other as he determined which to use._

_There was a stateroom at the end of the hall. A light shone under its door, so he could make out his surroundings. He melted against the wall beside the door, listening. There was no movement inside, as far as he could tell. The light was not bright, so probably not the main one for the room. It could be a nightlight, or someone reading. With his right hand, he gently tested the doorknob; it was locked. That was unfortunate._

_Jimmying the door without making a sound took some time. His hair kept getting in his eyes and he had to stop to move it. Finally, the lock was disengaged. He waited to see if there was any reaction to the click it made. Slowly, he opened the door, knowing the more gradual and steady the movement, the less likely it would be noticed. He stood in the frame, surveying the room. It was large, with several doors off of the main room. In an easy chair against the wall, a man sat reading. He recognized him immediately as his target; balding, late fifties, one hundred ninety five pounds, five foot eight._

_It was pure luck that he had not been noticed already. The man would certainly sound an alarm if he did not succeed in killing him immediately. Aiming with care, he threw his knife. It spun through the air and pierced the man's throat, pinning him to the chair and nearly decapitating him. His vocal cords were surely severed, which was the goal. The rate he was bleeding indicated that he would not live long, especially as his struggles caused the knife to open more flesh. He walked quickly across the room and carefully removed the knife, wiping it on the man's shirt. _

_As he was turning to leave, an ear-shattering scream stopped him in his tracks. A little girl in a nightgown stood in one of the doors off the main room; nine years old, seventy pounds, four foot eleven. He briefly weighed his options, then bolted out of the door. The damage was done; silencing her would only delay him further. Noise increased: the sound of boots and running. He ran faster, down the pitch-black corridor. Lights were up ahead; he turned away from them. There were shouts and an alarm bell started ringing. They would turn the lights on soon. He reached the end of the corridor at last, and was at the side of the ship. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see people approaching fast from his left. He did not slow his run, and dove over the edge._

_The water struck him like a fist and he barely kept himself from gasping and inhaling the black water. He kicked hard and brought himself back to the surface. The waves crashed around him, high enough to make it difficult to see the ship. He turned away, relieved to hear no following gunshots, or worse, splashes. He aimed himself in the direction of his team and moved at a steady pace. At last, thoroughly exhausted, he found the life raft and allowed himself to be lifted on board by his left arm. They gave him a blanket and he obligingly sat beneath it as the men steered them back to their own ship, some miles away._

* * *

He awakens, confused. Where is he? Not in the ocean, as he seems to expect. Not on a ship, either. He looks around the room, sitting up on the bed. Not his bed. Not his room. Does he have either of those? Probably not. There is not another one in his mind that feels more familiar. He gets to his feet unsteadily, holding his ribs where they ache. The room spins and he holds still. The moment passes and he creeps out of the room, listening carefully as his bare feet pad along the wooden floor.

The apartment is silent. He vaguely recalls inspecting it previously, but doesn't know how long ago that had been or why. He checks the area again, looking out the windows and into the hall. There is no sign of life. He returns to the living room and sits down on the couch, staring at the screen. Tentatively, he picks up one of the remote controls and pressed the button labelled "power." The screen flickers to life, but no images come. Pushing the same name on a different remote makes a light show up on a small box below the screen, and people begin talking very loudly. He jumps, and looks for something to stop the sound. There isn't a dial anywhere, what he first seeks, but there is one labelled "volume." He presses the down button and is relieved when the voices grow quieter.

_The car screeched around the city corner, its speed too high to bank properly. He fired his weapon. The vehicle exploded in flames, flipping over from impact._

He watches, intrigued, as tiny stories enfolded in thirty seconds time. The people in them seem rather rude and often foolish, though. The rapid changes in tone and context make him uncomfortable. A diverse group of people eat different foods together, or vacation together, always talking and laughing. One group mentions their enjoyment of a place called Coney Island, another describes a beautiful beach, a third shows ziplining through a forest, and a fourth insists that Virginia is for lovers. He frowns at the last one; what a strange description. Others feature happy elderly people engaging in outdoor activities. He has begun to suspect that they are selling things, but he isn't sure what a few of them could possibly be hawking.

"We now return to our feature story," a professional looking woman says as the picture changes to a large room containing a desk and several monitors behind it. An equally professional man sits beside her. "The intelligence agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. has been closed down. It had been infiltrated by agents of Hydra, a long-thought destroyed group started by Nazis in World War II. After almost seventy years, they have resurfaced and attempted to take control of our great nation. Captain America, alias of Steve Rogers, was able to stop them, though he suffered severe injuries and is now recovering in County General."

A box appears next to the woman with a photograph in it. It is undoubtedly the man he attacked. His eyes narrow. Had he known his name before? "A survivor of World War II himself, the captain has been serving our nation well since he was found in the ice and revived," the man interjects.

"Yes," the woman replies, barely glancing at him. "He had a hand in defeating the invasion of New York City last year. We wish him a full recovery."

Her voice fades away as his mind pulled him away from the small apartment to a completely different era.

* * *

_"__Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?" he asked._

_ "__Yeah, and I threw up?" Steve responded._

_ "__This isn't payback, is it?"_

_Steve smiled at him. "Now, why would I do that?"_

* * *

_He stood inside a train, fighting someone. It wasn't going well. The wall exploded away suddenly, and he soon found himself clinging to a railing as he was suspended above a ravine. Steve was shouting to him, reaching for him. He fell, a scream tearing at his throat, and he could hear his friend screaming as well._

* * *

_Pain was everywhere. Everything ached. His sight was blurry and he couldn't move. He stared out into the darkness, unable to speak. The world was quiet. He didn't know where he was or why. His left arm really hurt._


	6. Well I know what you mean, but

**A/N: Wow, two reviews! So exciting :) Hope you enjoy this next one!**

**6. Well I know what you mean, but that ain't how it seems right here, right now**

He gasps loudly, right hand clutching his left where it ached. Except it doesn't, of course, but he can still feel where it had been injured in the fall before being removed. He has sat forward in his distress, and forces himself to lean back against the couch. His eyes refocus on the screen ahead of him, wondering how long he has been elsewhere. The two professionals are gone. A different program is on, just introducing itself. It is a program about Captain America.

He watches intently, soon getting up to pace as the man and his humble beginnings are described. It bothers him, though he can't place why. His contribution to the war effort is explained, as well as his eventual involvement in rescuing some POWs. One was his lifelong friend, Bucky Barnes. He sits down, staring at the screen as though his life depends on it. And maybe it does. They do not discuss this friend much longer, mentioning only that he had been killed in action and the Captain was strongly affected by it. They show a picture, though.

_He stood in the corner of the room, silent as death. The shadows hid his presence. When the woman left the bed, he approached, drawing his knife with care to keep it from reflecting any light. It sliced easily through the subcutaneous fat and muscle of the target's throat. Other than a slight gurgling, there is no sound._

Wood splinters and flies around the room as he crushes the table in front of him with his metal fist. He surges to his feet, throwing the damaged furniture across the room as he does so. It crashes into the wall and he glares at it, chest heaving. A small part of his brain reminds him to be quiet, but he ignores it. He swears viciously as he stomps around the room, letting out some long-pent-up emotions.

A few minutes later find him back on the couch, the broken table righted and in front of him as he finishes the program. It raises more questions than it answers. How has he been alive for nearly a century without aging? The other man had been frozen. He supposes he has been, too. He had no idea he was asleep for such long periods of time. Aliens have invaded New York? How could that be? How had they been stopped? He looks at his own arm when the one called Iron Man is described. Technology like this is rare, it seems, even in an age when small apartments contain such advanced equipment as what shows him these images.

_He was flying the helicopter. The car was driving away, fast, as though it had a chance of escaping. When they were closing in, he handed control over to the other man, and took aim with an RPG. The car exploded and they lifted away._

He sits back and touches the surface of his metal arm gingerly with his flesh fingers. He has not given any thought to it before. Who made it? How has he come by such a technological wonder? Will it continue to function without the maintenance he barely recalls being done by his handlers? He looks at it pensively. How many others have such an asset? It will identify him easily, but he doesn't know how to remove it, or if he wants to.

The room feels stifling suddenly. He gets to his feet impatiently and returns to the bedroom for his boots and socks. He has to get out, away from these thoughts. He has to do something. While he laces his footwear, the story in the other room finishes. They say that name again, Bucky Barnes. He freezes, listening as they describe a place he can go to find out more about the Captain. Something called the Smithsonian. He commits the word to memory, then ducks out the window.

* * *

The street is cool as the sun is setting. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks with his head down, the hood covering as much of his face as possible. It seems he had been right to worry about being recognized, just not in the way he suspected. He pushes the thought aside. He does not want to think about who he might have been.

People stream passed him, some moving uncomfortably near his body. His ribs still ache, as does his right shoulder, but he is more concerned with how noticeable his metallic arm might be to the touch. He presses his arms closer against his torso subconsciously. He walks without purpose, trying to focus on his environment rather his memories. It occurs to him that having a memory burst, or whatever it is, can apparently happen anytime, and may be too intense for him to continue with whatever be might be doing. It would be inconvenient here. Still, he walks on, not wanting to return to the apartment yet.

He doesn't have any money. People probably use money still. It would be useful to have some on hand. Highly skilled he may be, but there are places he won't be able to enter without attracting attention unless he can pay. He does not want to attract attention. Most lines of employment are not viable, and his skill set is rather narrow. He doesn't know if he wants to continue as an assassin, or how one gets into that field without connections.

It would also be good to have some different clothes. A better disguise is necessary, especially if he decides to follow through with the idea he is contemplating. He ducks down the next alley he passes, listening intently as several footsteps follow him. He saw them behind him, watching him, four young men, around eighteen in age; two are as tall as he is, all are heavier. Their weight does not come from muscle, however, and he deems them not a threat. He melts into the shadows and waits.

"Where the hell did he go?" one asks, whispering. His comrades shush him, and he can make out the glints of steel as they arm themselves.

The largest of them steps forward. "Come out, fag, and show us what you got," he calls.

He reaches for his knife, tucked in his boot, then moves into sight. "This is what I've got," he says conversationally. "How about you?"

They jump back, perhaps startled that he is armed. Or perhaps it is his expression. He can feel a slight smile on his face, unfamiliar but unintentional. He cocks his head, openly sizing them up: one seventeen, two hundred pounds, six foot flat, another eighteen, two hundred five pounds, five foot nine, the third eighteen, one hundred ninety five pounds, five foot ten, and the leader nineteen, two hundred twenty-five pounds, six foot one.

"Show this asshole what we do to trespassers in our neighborhood," the leader says. With surprising organization, the other three rush forward, brandishing their knives. Blocking their blows with his weapon is second nature, but his injuries slow his movements more than he expects. A slight doubt has just entered his mind when a harsh metallic sound rings through the alley as the shortest man's knife makes contact with his left arm. It has sliced through his sleeve. The sound gives his attackers pause.

"What the hell is that?" the largest says, moving forward. His underlings step back to allow him to approach. It is a poor decision.

He tosses his knife back into his right hand, having switched it repeatedly during the fight (to use the word charitably), and reaches out with his left. The leader's attempts to defend himself are ineffectual against his prosthesis, and are much too slow. He closes his fingers over the youth's windpipe and squeezes. As expected, the others leap forward to save their comrade. He defends himself with his knife and does not release the pressure for several moments. As the man begins to lose consciousness, he tosses him aside and beats back his attackers swiftly. They retreat, except for the other tall one. He grabs him by the arm and yanks him close, holding his knife to his throat.

"Stop," he orders calmly. The others look at their leader, listless on the ground, then back to him. Then they bolt. He sighs. "Take off your clothes and give me any cash you have," he says to the hostage he holds. He hopes the clothes will fit. Staring at him in terror, the youth does as told. When he is down to his underwear, he lets him run off. He searches the man on the ground deftly, and takes his money as well. His clothes will not fit.

With new-ish clothes and an astounding sum of one hundred dollars on his person, he walks out of the alley. Maybe his skills can be used in other ways. No one on the street shows any signs of having noticed the scuffle in the alley, which is something of a surprise, but also a relief. He tucks his hand back into his pocket, the clothes folded and held in his right arm. His head feels clearer than it has since he could remember.

As he returns to the apartment, he mulls over what he had learned from the screen. His own memories seemed to indicate some truth to the assertion that he has known the man his whole life. Or, at least, before he lost his arm. That does not mean he is this Bucky person. He has been carefully cultivated into a skilled assassin over the last seventy years. He knows his business and little else. But maybe it wouldn't hurt to change that.


	7. How can this be real? I can barely feel

1. How can this be real? I can barely feel anymore

He drops to the floor, palms pressing flat against it as he pushes himself upwards, then slowly back down. After fifty repetitions, he jumps to his feet again. He lifts the heaviest objects he was able to find in the apartment, lacking weights, with his arms extended out and above his head, then back straight out, and back down. He repeats this fifty times, too. By the end, his right shoulder screams in protest and he clenches his teeth, breathing heavily. He forces himself to continue his workout, but focuses on his legs instead.

_The guard emptied his clip in his direction. He ran serpentine, jumping up walls on either side of the street. He threw his knife when the guard reloaded, and he dropped. He approached the door carefully, tossing in a grenade. When the smoke cleared, he entered the room to make sure the target was eliminated._

When he has finished, he goes to the bathroom and takes a shower. It is a new experience, he is relatively certain. He washes away much more than just the dirt and dried blood. He feels fresh, mentally and physically, when he leaves the bathroom. The clothes he has stolen have been washed, as best as he could, in the sink. They are finally dry, and he is going to leave this place. For a little while, at least.

The denim trousers, something he has seen many people wearing, are a little loose, but not uncomfortable. A black t-shirt follows, with long sleeves to cover his arm. A green denim jacket completes the inventory. The shoes don't fit, so he pulls on his boots. They are more useful, anyway, and unlikely to be recognizable. He tucks them into his trousers, just in case. Finally, he pushes back his long hair and covers it with a cap. Surveying himself in the mirror in the bathroom, he decides it would be sufficiently difficult to connect his face with either identity, especially as his whiskers are growing out.

He has put on his gloves that lack fingers, but keeps his hands in his pockets just the same. The sun is bright and he doesn't want anyone to notice how his hand shines in the light. It is early in the day, but the street is already full of people. He leans against one of the many brick buildings lining the street, arms folded over his chest, watching them. His desired destination lies somewhere in this city, but he is not planning on wandering around until he comes upon it.

_The sun beat down on him, warming his black clothing uncomfortably. He was standing on a roof, looking down into the courtyard below. He leveled the heavy RPG on his shoulder, aiming at the office across the street. It exploded in flames and he ducked out of sight._

A group of people begin assembling by the street, at a bench surrounded by a glass structure. The structure is covered with posters, and one in particular catches his eye. He leans away from the wall, and, quickly shoving his hands in his pockets, walks over to the group. They had arrived separately and did not make eye contact with one another, and he is relieved to be accepted as one of their number just as anonymously.

A large motorized vehicle, a bus?, pulls up in front of them after a while, a loud scraping sound emanating from it as the brakes are depressed. The assembled folks calmly climb aboard, many not even putting down their papers or other means of distraction. He clutches the money in his right pocket and waits to see if he will be allowed through.

"SmarTrip card?" the driver asks as he pauses in front of her.

"What?" he responds uncertainly.

"It's a buck eighty without it," she says, her tone one of politely concealed annoyance. He pulls out two dollars from his stash. "I don't have change," she tells him, the politeness beginning to slip.

"That's okay," he says, turning away. There are rows of gray seats, two on each side of the vehicle, as well as poles lining the aisle and bars attached to the ceiling. Most of the seats are full, and several people are holding onto the overhead apparatus. He walks down a few rows and mimics them using his right hand. His left he keeps in his pocket, though he had at first reached with it to hold on. He shifts uncomfortably. There does not appear to be any information about how to get to the Smithsonian anywhere in the vehicle. He does not want to ask anyone.

_There was a man strapped to the chair, held immobile with duct tape. He already killed the guards surrounding the room, sniping them when they walked out of sight of the rest. The man's eyes widened when he saw him. He began to struggle, screaming against the gag in his mouth. He didn't know why his target was trussed up already. He had checked for a trap, for any other threats, but couldn't find any. He decided it didn't matter._

As he is beginning to regret his decision, a crackling voice can suddenly be heard, describing their next location. He listens carefully to what is probably the bus driver, and settles himself to wait. Patience is not something he lacks. Many jobs have required him to wait, quiet and motionless, in the dark for a target; this won't be any different. The bus slows, and he moves his feet further apart to better keep his balance. The other passengers all lean forward, but he remains still. Some leave as the doors open. He waits.

_"__He doesn't interrogate. He eliminates," a man behind him was explaining to a man in a suit. He was practicing throwing knives. "That's exactly what I need," the suited man said, a smile audible in his tone._

The speaker crackles again several times, with corresponding stops and exchange of passengers, before he hears something that sounds like Smithsonian. It is difficult to be sure, but none of the other locations sounded similar. He waits until the bus stops, then follows the small train of people down the steps and back outside. The sun is higher than he had expected, and he blinks at it. The presence of others behind him can be felt, so he quickly moves forward.

A great red brick building is before him, with a carefully cropped lawn. There are many cars and other vehicles on the street beside him, dropping people off and picking them up. He hangs back, watching them. Most are going in a large pair of doors, though some walk further down the sidewalk. These latter congregate on the other side of the arched doorway, and appear to be looking at something. He follows them.

When they move out of the way, he sees that they were looking at a directory. It is taller than he is, and contains many names. He finds the one he looks for quickly, and locates it on the map. He feels a growing tension as he contemplates what he might find, and he pushes it aside. Focus on the mission, he tells himself. Fitting the map into his head is no difficulty, and he easily finds his way to the area he seeks.

There is a line outside, and he waits patiently. There are groups of children in front of him, many acting with barely contained excitement. Several have toys with which they play, some of them action figures of the man who's exhibit they are visiting. The realization makes him smile in amusement. He pushes the feeling away and looks elsewhere when one of the children makes eye contact and stops playing. He is aware of the boy whispering to his friends and he roots himself to the spot. He will not preemptively address something that may not happen. The child will not sound an alarm and he will not have to use his knife to avoid capture. The children will go back to playing and forget about the man they had seen in line.

_There were screams all around him. The building was aflame, debris raining from the ceiling. He walked around, searching. He found his target, a young man, seventeen, one hundred forty pounds, five foot six. The youth cowered under a bed. He dragged him out easily, though he tried to fight, and pulled him to the window. "Make it look like an accident," he remembered, and tossed the man out._

The doors open and the group of children are allowed through. He lets out the breath he had been holding and steps forward. A man who is clearly counting the patrons motions him to enter as well. He does so, but quickly turns to the right to avoid those who were ahead of him. He walks along the walls, covered with pictures and paragraphs of text. The tendons in his back tense as he moved along, skimming the information without absorbing anything.

A shelf on his right bears a screen, the image on it stopping him in his tracks. Two young men in grainy black and white are talking and laughing together. One is the man he had fought. The other is undeniably himself. He leans heavily against the plastic wall, right hand gripping at the smooth edges of the shelf as he tries to maintain his balance without his left. The shock he feels is foolish; had he not come here explicitly to see for himself if what the man said was true? He regains his composure quickly and moves away, hoping no one has noticed his momentary lapse.

Whoever he was seventy years ago does not change who he is now, he tells himself. Still, it is hard to resist finding out more. He walks slowly around the large room, stopping to read a whole panel about Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes. None of the information causes his memories to flash before his eyes, which is somewhat disappointing. Still, he memorizes it before moving on to other parts of the exhibit.


	8. I am trying to see, I am trying

**8. I am trying to see, I am trying to believe**

He does not linger for long. Once he has learned what he wanted to know, he leaves. He stands outside the building in the sun, digesting information. There is no reason to hurry; he has no place to be. His reverie is sharply brought to an end when a heavy something collides with his back. He whips around, crouching and drawing his knife, both hands at the ready.

_There were men all around him. There were more armed than he was. He hissed as a knife made contact with his back, striking his shoulder blade. The pain caused him to attack instead of defend, twisting and striking faster than the eye could follow._

"S-s-sorry," a boy says, backing away slowly. Another boy is running to catch up with his fellow, and freezes when he sees him.

He sheathes his knife and stands, quickly putting his hands back in his pockets. "You're so fast!" the second boy says as he walks away from them. "Did you see his knife?" he asks, turning to his friend. The first boy is silent. He moves away a little faster, hoping they will not follow or continue talking about him. "Hey!" The sound of small feet moving hastily across the pavement makes him swear mentally. Short of running himself, which he isn't going to risk doing, there is no escape.

"I'm sorry, we were just playing. I didn't mean to bump you," the first boy, clearly older, says as he catches up.

"Don't mention it," he growls.

"My name's Jaden. This is Damon, my brother," the boy continues.

"Where'd you get that cool knife?" the younger one, Damon, prompts.

"My boot," he says shortly.

"Isn't that uncomfortable? Having a knife in your shoe?"

"No."

The younger child looks up at his sibling, who shrugs. "How did you move so fast? Are you like Captain American?" His voice is hushed, reverent, as he utters the second part.

He stops short, and they turn to face him when they noticed that they were no longer in step. "No, I'm not."

* * *

On the bus again, there are few passengers and he sits down, staring out the window. It helps to soothe his nerves as the scenery flashes by. Going to the museum had been a risk, being in public was a risk. He needs to lay low, not go places where his face adorns the walls. Unwelcome attention has been attracted and he is unsure of how much danger it could cause. Things are harder to quantify than they had been on his missions. He lacks too much intel to make informed decisions in this environment.

Had it been worth it to go? The man described as James Barnes certainly looked a great deal like him. But no memories had been triggered to indicate that there was truth to the assertions made by the man in blue. He vaguely recalls, choppily, that the man was somehow connected with his loss of an arm. It is difficult to focus on the memory, which slides away from his consciousness when he tries to think about it. Still, he had allowed doubt slip into his mind and it had prevented him from completing his mission. He might as well follow through.

_His cold, metal fingers wrapped around the throat of the guard. He struggled, clawing desperately at his hand. He threw him against the wall and he crumpled. When he heard footsteps running, and the quiet sounds of orders being made, he pulled out his gun and waited._

This city is not a place in which he should linger any longer. It is far too close to his last mission, not to mention that there is a museum exhibit dedicated to what is apparently his past. He should find somewhere else to hide and wait for his memories to return. The information provided in this place will presumably be available in others. So where he goes is not important. But he knows where he wants to go.

* * *

It was only midafternoon by the time he gets off of the bus near where he started. He has never doubted that he could get back to the same place again, but a slight worry had begun to cross his mind as he waited, watching the buildings pass. Few others disembark with him, but he waits around on the sidewalk for a little while before ducking back down the alley. Climbing fire escapes is probably a suspicious way to enter a building, and he is overcautious as a result of his earlier experience.

He lingers outside the window, listening, as he presses himself against the brick building. Satisfied that it appears as empty as the day before, he opened the unlocked window and slips inside. He lands silently on the tile floor and does not move for several moments until he is reasonably assured that there is no threat here. He gathers his belongings, a limited quantity, and prepares a meal. Gazing out the window as he eats, he weighs his options on how to travel. When he has finished, he does what he can to erase the evidence of his presence in the apartment and brings all that he will take with him into the bedroom. He needs to get some sleep; there will be work to do tonight.

* * *

_It was raining. He stood as close to the building as possible, but the overhang was small and his left side was soaked through. He was in an alley between a bank on one side and a coffee shop at the bottom of an apartment building on the other. An old hotel was across the street, and the reason for his silent vigil. His target was in there. For whatever reason, his handlers had been unable to tell him much about the whereabouts of his goal, presumably due to increased security measures. They knew only that she was in that hotel and he would have to find her._

_She had been leaving when he had arrived. It was too risky to try to finish the mission right away; too many bystanders and witnesses. He would have to wait for her to return. He pulled his leather jacket closer around himself, ignoring the unpleasantness of cold water dripping down his neck at the movement. The night was cold and he was beginning to feel it. _

_At last, a long black car pulled up and he could clearly see her leave it. He twitched at the sight of her, ready, but did not move. The rooms of the hotel were all on the side facing him, he knew; he would soon find out where she was. Her security was lingering on the street, in any case, and might be alerted if he moved immediately after her arrival. Not that he intended to move in a way that would be noticed from that distance, of course._

_A light shone in one of the rooms. It was on the fifth floor, the top of the building. He could not see in from his angle to ascertain if it was hers or not. Melting into the shadows, he moved away from the street and behind the coffee shop. A dumpster stood by the building, and he jumped atop it, and then onto the scaffolding on the second story, where they were renovating. He climbed higher on the outside of the building, not wanting to get lost in a potential labyrinth within. The metal was wet and hard to hold. He slipped once, his left hand struggling to maintain its grip, but was eventually successful in ascending the building._

_Ripping the tarp that covered the empty window frame free of its staples, he stepped inside. The storm could be heard beating against the roof, but it was otherwise quiet inside. He moved slowly in the dark, checking his footing before putting his weight down. He had inspected the building earlier, in the daylight, but knew some of the floorboards had been removed or were laying loose. After a tedious five minutes, he had made it to the other side of the building, with intact front windows._

_He swung his pack over his shoulder and began removing the black metal tubes from within and screwing them together. Most of them went into creating a tripod; the rest fitted together to make a rifle. He set them up with care, in front of the south window. The window opened only a foot, but that was enough room. He pulled it open and then lay down behind his setup, stretching his legs back carefully to avoid any debris. He peered into the scope and waited._

_The woman was indeed in that room. The shades were drawn, but they were thin and he could make out her silhouette. There were others in the room with her. Some were obviously bodyguards given their demeanor. One was an assistant or secretary of some sort. He waited patiently. It was night; she was not going to go anywhere. _

_Things began to settle down. There was less movement and fewer people in the room. He shifted his weight and readied himself to finish the job. Happily, she came to the window and opened it, just a bit, to smoke. In the gap, he could see her face and could confirm her identity. He exhaled and, without breathing, took aim. He pulled the trigger and she fell like a stone back into the room. Methodically, he unassembled his weapon and repacked it. Then he moved quietly out the back of the building._

_The excitement across the street was noticeable even as he climbed down the scaffolding. Sirens sang and there was a great deal of shouting. He dropped onto the dumpster, then to the ground and walked calmly down the alley, parallel to the road. He would not risk being seen and questioned in the commotion. With a sinking feeling, he heard dogs barking. His scent would certainly be available to them if they suspected the location he had used. He cursed the fact that the rain had stopped during his time spent inside. Striding purposefully through puddles, he moved swiftly away from the scene._

_When he reached the end of the block, he left the alley and turned onto the sidewalk, strolling as nonchalantly as possible. He had made it about a block when he heard the sound of rushed footsteps and clacking of the dogs' nails against the concrete. He swore ferociously under his breath. They had his scent. He was considering whether he should try to run when a van shrieked to a stop in front of him. The side door slid open and his men moved out of the way. He leapt in and they sped away as he pulled the door closed._

**A/N: Please read and review :) **


	9. This is not where I should be

**A/N: Yay, more reviews than chapters! Better fix that :) Thanks for reviewing! My life currently involves watching Steve and Bucky videos, crying, and then writing, so I'm glad people are enjoying it. We're more than halfway through...**

* * *

**9. This is not where I should be**

He awakens with a start. Listening carefully, he tries to determine what has caused him to wake. It is dark in the room and he struggles to remember where he is. Then he hears the distinct sound of the apartment door opening. He leaps to his feet and grabs his things from where he'd left them on the floor. Swiftly, he wrenches the window open and jumps onto the fire escape. He hears a scream behind him as his presence is no doubt noticed. He swings down the metal ladders somewhat faster than is safe, especially in the dark, and lands on the concrete below some moments later with a heavy thud. Running down the alley, he hears a shout from above, perhaps spotting him. He increases speed.

When the alley comes to a street a few blocks away, he allows himself to slow. No one will think to look for him this far away, and running would be suspicious. He turns and walks calmly down the sidewalk, eyeing the parked cars as he does so. Public transportation may be available, but he does not want to risk it again. Though he piloted a state of the art plane only days before, he prefers to take an older car. Who knows what strange technologies they may have implemented into vehicles these days, like tracking devices? Whatever he takes is going to need to work right away, not require him to do a lot of guesswork. It is also likely than an older car will be easier to break into with the rudimentary tools of that trade that he possesses.

_The driver of the car he was chasing is dead, his bullet lodged in the man's brain. The passenger struggled with the door as he approached. Finally wrenching it open, the target tried to run. He stopped walking and took aim._

He pauses by a plain looking red car, its paint fading and passenger door handle missing. He tries the door and is surprised to find it unlocked. Glancing around to make sure he isn't being observed, he slips into the vehicle. It is lower to the ground than he expected, so the drop into the seat is more violent than intended. He half expects the keys to be in the car already, but they do not appear to be. He takes out his knife and reaches under the dash, pulling out the cables there. After a brief moment of consideration, he knows how to hotwire the vehicle. It roars to life, and he again checks the quiet street for any observers.

Refueling the vehicle is somewhat more complicated than he anticipated, but he is able to do so before he leaves the city. His remaining cash is dwindling at an alarming rate, though. He heads northeast, eventually finding himself on I-95. There are signs indicating this road will take him the rest of the way, so he settles back.

The headlights on his vehicle leave something to be desired. It is fortunate that there are other lights on the road. The odometer is not functioning, so he mimics the speeds of others around him. Some go too fast for the old car to keep up, and he begins to reconsider his choice. If something should happen, he will easily be outrun in this automobile. He pushes the thought aside. It will take him to Brooklyn. Then he can leave it.

* * *

_He walked passed a burnt out car. There was rubble everywhere. The city was bombed recently. The sky was clear; he knew he didn't have to worry about that now. He searched for a bunker, taking care not to disturb the bits of concrete and twisted metal littering the road._

The drive is long, but it is soothing to look out at the lights in the darkness as they sped by. It is easier to steer with his left hand, and nice to be able to use it freely. He rubs his face with his right, wondering how long he will be out here. The adrenaline from almost being caught, as well as from taking the vehicle, seems to have worn off and he is growing tired. He had only slept a couple of hours before being awoken.

He considers the content of his dreams lately. Does he not dream when in stasis? He seems to be doing a lot of it now that he is actually sleeping. Can he assume that they were all memories, or might some not be real? They felt real. The pain and discomfort certainly did. Nothing about them seems hard to believe, based on the facts he has gathered. How many more memories will surface? Will everything, if he just sleeps enough?

Does he want them all back? Watching himself assassinate people he knows nothing about is not really what he wants to see. These visions tell him little about himself that he doesn't already know. He is not aware of how many missions he has done or how he has been trained, but he knows these have happened and seeing them in detail is of little value. It does not seem that he can stop them, though.

* * *

When he reaches the city at last, he pulls off the road and leaves the car just off the exit ramp. He has never driven to the place he wants to go, so his feet will serve him best. The air is still as he marches along, directionless. The signs declare him to be in Brooklyn, but nothing is familiar. He turns down streets at random, sometimes backtracking after a block or two when it seems necessary. A sign posted on a street corner gives him pause: "Home of Captain America!" He frowns, looking around, then peruses it for an address. There is none, so perhaps the whole city is being defined. He keeps walking.

Somehow, his feet find their way in front of an old apartment building and stop. There are flags flying on its roof, more than he has seen anywhere else, but no signs. He can't bring himself to keep walking, though, and wonders if that means he has arrived. He climbs the rickety staircase, clearly built in a different era, and wanders down the porch. His foot lifts automatically to avoid some obstacle, but, when he looks, there is nothing there. A brick had been there before, he becomes sure of suddenly. There is an unassuming sign on the door. He leans closer to read it.

"Historical site: Childhood home of Steve Rogers, alias Captain America. NO TRESSPASSING after hours."

He smiles at the last part as he tries the door. It is locked, unsurprisingly, but he is able to get it open in a few moments. He wanders the rooms of the postage-stamp-sized apartment, which contains plaques and various other means of communicating information. The furniture is sparse, and he is struck by the feeling that it does not fit right. It seems as though it has been hastily assembled after the man had been lost in action.

He pulls the door shut behind him as he leaves and is stopped dead in his tracks. The apartment may not have rung any bells, but standing here certainly does. The number of lights have changed in the city. There are more power lines. But he knows that he had stood here before. And not alone.

* * *

_His fingers wrapped around the railing as he leaned forward, looking out over the city. The folds of his dress uniform were carefully starched and pressed. Sighing, he walked down the stairs again. Steve wasn't home. He did not want to have to give him the bad news out there in the world. He knew his friend wouldn't take it well._

* * *

_ He was sitting, with his skinny legs stuck between the bars on the railing. His friend had gone inside his house, but he wasn't going to leave anytime soon. Steve had lost his father today. And he wanted him to know that he still had family, even if it meant waiting on this cold porch._

_ Steven stood beside him as they looked out. "How many tries did it take you to get in?"_

_ "Just the one," he replied, not meeting Steve's eye._

_ "And now you'll go to war."_

_ "Steve," he said quietly, turning toward him._

_ "You should go, serve our country. Maybe they'll let me go, too."_

_ "Maybe."_

* * *

_ "We can put the cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun. All you got to do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash. Come on," he said, climbing the stairs in his best, and only, suit. _

_Steve glanced his way and mumbled some excuse as he tried the door. "Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own." _

_He caught up with his friend and picked up the rock on the floor, lifting the key. "The thing is, you don't have to. I'm with you until the end of the line, pal," he assured him as he put his hand on Steve's shoulder._

* * *

_In the space below the porch, between the buildings, a boy was getting thrashed by bigger kids. He walked over angrily, punching the nearest one in the face. "Hey! Pick on someone your own size!" he cried, as the boy dropped, holding his bleeding nose. _

_ The others turned and ran, their comrade forgotten. He stood up unsteadily and ran after them, shouting "Why do you want to go and defend that little lunger? He's not going to last long anyway!"_

_ He held out his hand and helped the smaller boy to his feet. "Thanks," he said shyly._

_ "Yeah, well, we can't let scrubs like that push people around," he replied. "What's your name?"_

_ "Steve. Steve Rogers."_

_ "I'm Bucky Barnes." They shook hands and smiled warmly. _


	10. Blood hardens in the sand, cold metal

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews and followers! I hope you continue to enjoy it :) There will be fourteen chapters (considering a sequel, though), so please let me know what you think!**

**10. Blood hardens in the sand, Cold metal in my hand**

He comes to with a start. He is lying on his back on the familiar porch. Sitting up painfully, he rubs his face with his remaining hand. Sleeping, or whatever he has been doing, on the ground is not conducive to his still-healing ribs. The sun has not risen yet, but he has no idea how long he has been out. It is unsettling to consider his vulnerability when his memories return.

He picks himself up, dusts off, and hops down the stairs. He knows where he wants to go, but does not know if it is still there or if he can find it after so long. The memories have been intense, but fractured and not very informative. Other than finally convincing him of whom he had been before.

Without paying much attention as he walks, he soon finds himself outside another door, about a block away. His feet have taken him there automatically. There is no plaque or sign on the door, but he knows where he is. A small part of him is surprised that these buildings are still standing. They had not been anything to write home about seventy years ago. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and tries the door. Locked. This is not a museum or historical site. Someone could live here. But being in the right location seems to have a great effect on his mind; how can he not try? Why has he come to Brooklyn if not for this?

He feels above the door frame and looks under the mat for a key. There is a small stone near the door. He picks it up and is surprised by its lightness. Turning it over, he finds a panel in the back and a key inside. He lets himself into what had once been his home. It is no larger than the previous apartment, but better furnished. It is clearly inhabited, but he can't seem to care about that. He walks from room to room, faint recollections flashing before his eyes as he saw the locations how they once were. Dazed, he sits down heavily on a sofa near the front door, having seen all of the apartment.

* * *

_His arm hurt. He was lying in a cot. The room he was in could only be described as a cell; it was empty except for his cot. He sat up slowly, blinking. The light came from a single, unadorned bulb hanging from the ceiling. Something felt very wrong. Dots danced before his eyes and he felt close to losing consciousness again. Sitting up had been a bad plan. He looked down at himself and stared at his left side. His arm ended just below the shoulder, with a bloody bandage wrapped around it. The pain intensified as he looked it, and he cried out._

* * *

_He tossed his knife up into the air, caught it with the other hand, and threw it with all his strength. It collided with the target on the other side of the room, knocking it back, but had not hit dead on. It stuck for a moment, then dropped. He pulled another one from his person and repeated. This one buried itself deep, though not in the bull's-eye. He kept trying._

* * *

_A man stood before him, armored and brandishing a knife. He held his own similar weapon, though it was shorter. The man attacked and he parried, twisting around to catch the man's left side, slipping below his block. His knife made contact and he leapt back, out of reach, as the angry retaliation sliced inches from his belly. _

* * *

_His body ached. He was dirty. He kept repeating his name, rank, and service number. He didn't know if he had said anything else. He was strapped to a gurney. There was a camera above his head. It had a lot of tubes attached to it, though. He didn't know why anyone would want to film him. His thoughts skipped along, unfocused, as he stared blankly ahead. He wouldn't betray anyone. He wouldn't say anything._

* * *

_A row of weapons lay on the table before him. He was standing in a field that was covered in snow. At the distant end of it, targets had been set up: a tank, a few cars, some straw men. He reached for the first weapon in the line, a pistol, and took careful aim. He set it back down as one of the barely-visible mannequins fell to the ground. A rifle was next. The cycle repeated: more men down. The firearms became more destructive so his aim was less important. Still, he fired with careful precision to destroy only what he had been told must be destroyed._

* * *

_There were strange lights around him as he lay on his back. His sight was bleary, but he could make out a few white-coated men nearby. He wanted to speak, to ask them what was happening, but found that he couldn't. He reached out toward the closest man on his left, and something felt different. The machines around him began to make noises at his movement. He lifted both hands to look at them and was confused to see that his left was silver._

* * *

_Three men stood around him. His stance was braced and ready. At a signal outside his vision, they attacked. One had a knife, another a club, and the third brass knuckles. He had no weapon. His instincts took over as he twisted and turned, defending himself from their onslaught. His metal arm did much to even the score. In a matter of moments, all three were lying on the floor. Two were unconscious. The other was not._

* * *

_He was in a helicopter. The sound was deafening. He was not alone, but no one spoke. There was a map on his lap. He studied it. Someone opened the door and took the map from him before it blew away. He got to his feet and jumped out. It took off without him and he started walking. It would take a long time to get back to the base._

_He was in the woods. The pine needles crunched under his boots as he moved. He took care to move stealthily, knowing that he was being watched. His steady pace took him out of the woods and onto farmland. He followed the rows and did not break any stalks to indicate his presence. Passing farmhouses from time to time, he crouched and pressed himself along their walls, to avoid being seen._

_A city lay between the farms. Much of it was rubble now. He moved swiftly through the broken concrete, struggling at times to keep his footing. The old streets from the map were hard to identify, frequently broken by the fallen buildings. Still, he could find his way. He kept himself as hidden as possible as he approached a blown-out bunker near the other edge of town. Getting inside was easy, as it was not intact. Doing this without attracting the notice of those he knew to be within was not. _

_He managed to get to where the new building started without being detected. A huge steel door, lacking the marks of war evident in the rest of the city, stood before him. He grasped the handle with both hands and pulled. It was locked. He searched the surface for the locking mechanism but could find none. Stepping back, he surveyed his surroundings for some alternate way to access the area. The walls were bare concrete. The floor was as well, with some rubble here and there._

_He studied the debris on the ground. Cocking his head, he began to shift it around with his boot. When the negative space created a shape he supposed could be charitably called a hydra, the lock on the door could be heard shifting. It was heavy, and took some moments. He crept up to the door during the noise, and pulled it open when it ceased. As soon as it was open, he ducked back behind it as shots rang out._

_Unsheathing his knives, he leaned carefully around the door to locate his targets. Then he threw his weapons in rapid succession. There was silence. He waited a moment longer before looking around the door again. The men were down. He walked inside, eyes sweeping the room for any further threats._

_ "__Welcome back, Winter Soldier. You've passed the test with flying colors," a voice over the loud speakers informed him. "This marks the end of the test. Return to your chamber." He let his guard down and did was he was told, stepping over his fallen comrades._


	11. Hope you understand the way that things

**11. Hope you understand the way that things are gonna be**

_He was walking through the forest. Fresh snow blanketed the ground, and the world was silent around him except for the trudge of his footsteps. The leather he wore creaked occasionally as he moved. His eyes traced the ground carefully, identifying barely-noticeable indentations under the new layer of snow. His left side ached with cold, which leaked from his metal arm to his flesh._

_The target had been alerted to his presence. He did not know how. When he had arrived at the house, it was empty. There was clear evidence of flight, as papers and clothes were flung haphazardly around the bedrooms and office. The suitcases nested: the second largest was clearly missing. He had walked around the house as the snow started to determine which way they had gone. No cars were missing. Had they turned to unforgiving nature at their doorstep rather than risk his finding them in the city? It was not a wise choice._

_He had left men to keep an eye on the house, and sent others to search the roads. They could communicate with him if they were found. He went into the trees alone when he found some poorly covered tracks heading west. And now he marched along, knowing by the space between the indentations that he moved faster than they did. It was bitterly cold. They could not stay ahead of him for long._

_There was a cabin up ahead. No lights shone from it. He approached silently, readying his weapons. The tracks clearly came to a stop at the door. He walked around it, crouching below the windows, to ensure that they had not left again. Satisfied, he leaned against the wall near a window and listened. Not a sound came from inside. He waited. Still nothing. He would be unable to report that the kill was confirmed if he did not see the target inside._

_He walked back to the door and wrenched it off its hinges with his left hand, immediately ducking back behind the frame as shots rang out. He swore as he pulled a flash grenade from his belt. When he threw it into the cabin, he could hear the scrambling of feet as they tried to get away. He covered his eyes with his arm when it went off, then quickly entered the room._

_It was a small cabin, only twelve feet in diameter. Sofas faced a fireplace on one wall, while a narrow bed rested against another. There was a sort of kitchen area immediately to his right. To his left, hiding behind one of the sofas and covering his face, was his target; early forties, one hundred eighty five pounds, five foot six. He strode over to him and lifted him with his left arm. The man cried out in surprise, reaching for his weapon. He flung him out the window with a crash._

* * *

_He ran across the field toward the stalled tank. When he was close, he rolled across the dirt to it and leaned against its tread, where he could not be shot at by its occupants. To prevent it from moving further, he wrenched off some of the wheel mechanism with his right hand. He shook it afterward; it hurt. He stood up and tossed a grenade in the opening above his head. There were screams and shouts for a few seconds. Once it went off, there was silence._

_He climbed to the top and pulled experimentally on the hatch with his right hand. It didn't budge. Checking around him for any threats, he lifted his new left arm, moving it hesitantly toward the task. The hatch ripped off the tank with barely any effort on his part, though the connecting tissue hurt a little from the pressure. He smiled._

* * *

_He moved stealthily toward the camp at the bottom of the hill. It was dark, though they had a fire going. It made finding them simple. He wore his battle gear for the first time, the leather jacket made of multiple layers to stop anything up to small arms fire. He had two pistols and a rifle attached to the harness he wore. A knife was tucked into each boot, as well as two on his waist. He had five grenades and extra ammunition on his belt. _

_They had woken him violently, as always. The men who had filled the room when he woke filed out while he dressed. It took some time to arrange his gear. The jacket had only one sleeve so it would better show off his new arm. It would provide more range of motion without cloth wrapped around it, and he supposed there was no reason to be concerned about it being attacked. The weapons had not been giving to him while in the chamber, so he had been at a loss about how to wear the harness._

_When he was successfully attired, he walked to the door and waited patiently until it was opened. The small man some part of him recognized was there, talking excitedly in Russian with some men in suits. They were nodding and looking at him appraisingly when he entered. He waited. "I am sure our Winter Soldier, the new fist of Hydra, will be able to take care of your little problem," the little man said happily._

_"__He looks like he might," one of the suited men said, taken aback._

_"__We used state of the art techniques to train him just for this purpose. Come, we will get in the helicopter so we can see him in action," he said, motioning them to follow one of the guards. Then he turned back to him, giving him a look full of warning. "Use deadly force. No survivors. Show them what you can do." Then he left. A guard had led him to the armory._

_Standing above the camp, he counted its inhabitants: thirty men, the youngest appeared eighteen and the oldest fifty. They ranged from one hundred seventy to two hundred five pounds, with heights between five foot six and six foot two. They were dressed in body armor, and all wore pistols. Twelve of them had rifles as well. There were six tents, a jeep, and a tank. Two men did sentry duty, each covering half of the camp. He waited while the men settled down. Three tents were full._

_He estimated the area a grenade would need to cover to address each tent, and paused, considering what had been said before he was sent out. Perhaps getting it over quickly was not the desired procedure. He looked back to the sentries. Moving quietly down the hill, he drew his smallest knife from his belt. Tossing it carefully, it struck the furthest sentry and he dropped. He had thirty seconds until the other sentry crossed the path and noticed the absence._

_He walked silently down the hill, lifting his rifle. As the sentry saw his fellow, he shot him through the heart. A man was approaching the path of the sentries. He had ten seconds. He stopped, lined up his shot, and took care of the threat. He sprinted to the next man, slitting his throat before he had noticed his presence. He moved quickly and quietly around the camp, dropping five more men. A senior officer left a tent immediately to his left. He reached out with his metal hand and snatched him by the neck. He squeezed and was surprised by how quickly bone snapped._

_A cry went up. He had been seen, and only killed ten of the men. He rolled behind the jeep as bullets rained after him. He pulled out one of his grenades and listened carefully to pinpoint where the majority of the gunfire came from. He pulled the pin and counted to two, then tossed it over his head. Two of the tents caught on fire, men screaming as their flesh burned. Six men had been killed immediately and four were not going to last long. They were no longer a threat. _

_The tank was occupied. He counted the men outside of it and determined that only two men had made it to the armored vehicle. He did not believe he had any grenades that would penetrate the metal. He removed his rifle from his shoulder and began to shoot those who had not found cover, doing little to disguise his location. As expected, the tank roared to life and moved in his direction. As the gun turned to aim at the jeep, he jumped up onto it and ran right at it. Leaping, he landed on top of it and ran to the hatch, ripping it open with his left hand. He tossed a grenade in with his right and jumped away._

_There were only four men left, scattered and hiding around the camp. He listened carefully, and was able to find them each, checking them off one at a time. When they were all down, he did as he had been trained to do. He set fire to the whole area, destroying the evidence of his involvement._

* * *

_"__He is impressive," a suited man said, smiling at the familiar little man, who beamed. "I must admit I did not expect a single man to take out a whole unit. And so stealthily! Half of them were gone before they even noticed."_

_"__Well, we only train the best."_

_He sat, listening to them. The memory of pain was etched into his head, and he was having restraints removed from his arms._

_"__We will be glad to make use of this asset, this Winter Soldier," the first man said._

_"__Splendid! It's wonderful to have you on board, General," the small man replied. They were drinking something; champagne. They studied him unabashedly, as though he were not really there. When he was free of his bonds, he stood. They backed away. He smiled._


	12. There's nowhere left to hide

**A/N: The first one is a deleted scene on the First Avenger, fyi. The rest is (more or less) mine.**

**12. There's nowhere left to hide 'Cause God is on our side**

_There was chaos everywhere. Men ran and shot and screamed. Mortars flew past, the ground exploding. He was running, his squad following him. He leaped into a newly formed crater, several feet deep, and pressed himself against the dirt for cover. Adjusting his helmet, he took stock of the situation._

_"__There's got to be at least five more companies out there!" Dugan shouted over the noise._

_"__Radio B Company; tell 'em we need cover," he ordered Jones._

_"__That might be tough," Jones called back, turning the radio so he could see the damage done to it. He swore. "Bucky, behind you!" _

_He turned around and shot at the approaching infantrymen. The men did the same. Dugan's hat was knocked off, but he did not fall; he wasn't injured. His targets destroyed, he turned to see where they had come from. "Here they come!" he said as he ran to position himself closer to the onslaught. _

_"__I hate these guys," Dugan growled as he joined him. The others joined as well and they shot into the darkness. While taking aim, he saw some kind of lightning come down and destroy his target. He paused, looking up from his scope open-mouthed to stare as more lightning, clearly not coming from the sky, came and struck more men. They disappeared as neatly as if they had never existed._

_"__What the hell was that?" He got to his feet, climbing out of cover to get a better look. Dugan and Jones stood beside him. They watched as three more blasts of light came from nearby, destroying the men on the hill opposite them. _

_"__That looks… new," Dugan said. Following his gaze, he saw some kind of tank rolling up over the hill. Its lights were very bright, making it difficult to make out. It was clearly many times larger than any tank he had ever seen before. It took aim – at them. _

_"__Duck!" he yelled, running for cover as it fired._

* * *

_He was walking. Though his squad was around him, they were not marching. Their weapons had been taken, the enemy surrounding them as they moved. He didn't remember surrendering. None of them spoke. Those too injured to walk had been left behind, some left where they'd fallen. Others… others were not so lucky. He didn't want to think about it. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. _

_They were marched into a factory of some kind. He was clenching his teeth, trying to ignore his screaming muscles and aching thirst. It had been a very long walk, ten miles or more. They had not been allowed to stop. Men in black suits and masks yelled at them in German. They were lined up in neat rows and waited. Without the momentum of walking, he was struggling to stay on his feet. A little bespectacled man came up. He was the only one not wearing a mask, and was wearing a lab coat. He walked down their lines, inspecting them._

_He waited, uninterested, wondering idly if they should have just let themselves be destroyed by the strange tank's weapon instead of allowing themselves to be taken prisoner. Factory work was familiar to him; if they had been taken here to work, that wouldn't be too unpleasant. Knowing he was aiding the enemy's war effort instead of his own would be demoralizing, sure, but it was probably better than being dead. Probably. He knew Steve didn't think that way. He was glad his friend was safe at home and wondered if he'd ever see him again._

_The small man stopped in front of him, saying something in German. He decided to ignore the inspection. It wasn't as though he hadn't been inspected before being deployed. The man asked him, in English, to lift his arms, to turn around. He did so, delaying just long enough to make the man's face begin to turn red, but not long enough for him to repeat the order angrily. When he finished, the man smiled. He pointed to him and spoke to the men standing guard around them. When their superior had left, the men marched everyone down to the basement, into metal cages apparently made for the purpose. He couldn't think why else they would be there._

* * *

_Sometime later, it may have been a few hours or a few days, they came for him. He had worked assembling some things for more than one period of time, but he couldn't be sure how many. There was no reason to focus on it. They came while he was in the cage at the end of the day. He assumed it was at the end; he hadn't seen daylight since marching here. Two big men grabbed him suddenly by the arms. Surprised out of his apathy, he fought, managing to bring one down. The other took the opportunity provided by his distraction to hit him in the face with the butt of his rifle._

* * *

_He came to on a cot of some sort. He was lying down, anyway. There were straps crossing his body, holding him in, every few feet. He couldn't move. His coat was gone, and his sleeves were rolled up, uncomfortably restricting circulation. He shifted, but it had little effect. Deciding to savor his strength, he stopped moving and looked around the room as much as he was able. He was not alone. There were at least two other cots containing men, presumably prisoners of war like himself. A great deal of scientific equipment stood around the room. He didn't want to look at it. He closed his eyes._

_Voices brought him back to the present. The little man was there, giving orders to two henchmen. They wheeled one of the other cots underneath a huge machine. He looked away as the man screamed, sounding as though his cries were dragged from him by a hook. He hoped they weren't. He didn't realize the sounds had stopped until he felt his own cot being yanked roughly over to the same location. Steel pads full of tiny needles were pressed onto his naked arms. He clenched his teeth. Something metal was fitted around his skull. The machine whirred to life and pain exploded everywhere._

* * *

The visions stop at last. He awakes, throat raw from screaming, still on that unfamiliar couch in a strangely familiar room. His breath is coming short and fast and he must work to calm himself. His muscles are tense, ready to attack, to strike, to break. He aches to attack. Who or what doesn't seem to matter. The room is empty still, unfortunately. When his heartbeat has slowed and his breathing no longer labored, he gets to his feet. Why did he come here? How could he think that these remembrances were what he wanted? He hates himself, and the world, more with each passing one.

He viciously lifts the coffee table and flings it against the wall. Its contents shatter, it splinters, and he feels a little bit better. The couch follows it, punching a hole in the wall. A scream emanates from the neighboring apartment and he sobers quickly. He runs out the door and into the night. But he can't run as fast as he needs to.

* * *

The sirens of the police vehicles fade away. He crouches in the relative safety of the fire escape down the street. He can see the building, but they cannot see him. They will not look for him here. He waits. Finally, he decides he is safe and climbs down. He is angry, but does not want to attract attention. Rage fills him more at the thought. He unsheathes his knife and walks down the street, waiting for someone to try something.


	13. I keep telling myself

**A/N: Second to last chapter...**

**13. I keep telling myself**

_He lay on his back in the snow. Everything hurt, but his arm most of all. He was vaguely aware of being cold and wet. He stared blankly up at the distant white sky, surrounded by grey peaks. Something important niggled at the back of his brain, but he ignored it. There was no reason to move, to try to get up from here. He could just stay here until the pain went away._

_A crunching sound greeted his ears. Something was approaching. He hoped idly that it was not a wolf. The idea was distressing, but felt too far away to motivate him to do something. He heard a shout. It was close by. And not in English. Definitely German. Well, maybe Swiss. He didn't know. _

_Some moments later, he was made aware of people standing over him, their eyes grotesquely huge and faces black. He blinked in surprise, fear pricking behind his eyes, before realizing they were wearing masks. Two of them lifted him onto a sled. Pain shot through his left arm. He turned to look at it with difficulty, and watched what remained of it paint a red line in the snow as he was dragged away._

* * *

_He was strapped to the cot, mumbling his way through his name, rank, and service number. The pain from earlier was far away, but he knew somehow that the other men who had received the same treatment are dead. It was upsetting, but in a distant way, as though it was happening to someone else. He chanted on. A shadow appeared above his head. He knew it had spoken but he can't bring himself to care._

_"Is it - " he began, eyes widening._

_ "__It's Steve!" the shadow insisted, breaking into his consciousness._

_ "__Steve?" he asked groggily. He blinked, and, sure enough, there was Steve's face above him. "Steve!" he repeated, smiling. His friend unfastened the restraints quickly and helped him to his feet. _

_ "__I thought you were dead," Steve said, looking down at him._

_He frowned. "I thought you were smaller," he replied, confused. "What happened to you?" he asked as they made their way out of the room, him leaning heavily against his now-giant friend._

_ "__I joined the army," Steve joked. He looked at him quizzically, and he relented. "I let them test a serum for a super soldier on me."_

_ "__Is it permanent?"_

_ "__So far," the man who was twice as big as Steve had been said cheerfully._

_They reached balcony above the factory floor. Another man was crossing the bridge with the bespectacled man from before. He and Steve fought briefly, then the bridge was pulled in and they shouted things back and forth to each other. He held onto the railing tightly, focusing on staying on his feet. The man appeared to pull off his own face and fling it into the explosions below. "You don't have one of those, do you?" he asked Steve, eyes wide as he took in the man's bright red skull._

_The men made their escape, and Steve pulled him away in search of a way across. "One at a time," his friend told him reassuringly when they found a steel I-beam connecting the walkways. He climbed carefully over the railing, with some help, and walked warily over the narrow surface. It dropped some while he walked and he struggled to maintain his balance. At last, he reached the other side and leapt to safety. The beam fell away. _

_"__There's got to be a rope or something," he shouted._

_"__Just go! Get out of here!" Steve urged._

_ "__No! Not without you!" he yelled in response, leaning against the railing intently. Steve looked around, then bent the metal bar that had been part of the elevated structure on his side out of the way. He took a running start and jumped. He stared at his friend in amazement as he cleared the inferno and clung to the bottom rung of the platform. He bent and helped Steve climb over to safety. "Wow," he said. _

_Steve smiled self-effacingly. "I wasn't sure that would work."_

_"__Well, it did."_

_"__Good. Let's go," Steve said, slipping his shoulder under his own for support._

_He had been elated to see his friend again. They met up with the other prisoners and marched back to where Steve said camp was. As they trudged, slowly enough for those more injured than he, his mind grew less foggy. He was shocked by the transformation in his little friend from Brooklyn. He supposed he wouldn't need to protect him anymore._

_The men looked up to Steve now. He was, after all, their rescuer. He didn't know how to feel about that. He loved Steve as a brother, and that was not diminished. But things were definitely changed between them. He would have to wait and see if this new Steve still wanted him around._

* * *

_He awoke on a cot. Again, he was strapped down. This time was different though. Something upsetting had happened. He opened his eyes. The view was familiar. The same camera thing was above his head as had been the last time he had awoken this way. The room was not the same, he felt sure. A feeling of rage washed over him at his helplessness, and he struggled. Pain shot through his left arm and he stilled, crying out in agony. He couldn't feel his fingers._

_A man in a lab coat floated into his line of sight. It was not the same man as before. He spoke to him, but he didn't understand. Some large men came up, and he was momentarily confused until they both held down his shoulders. The other man came forward with a saw. He screamed and screamed._

* * *

_He sat in a cell. Though he was on a cot, he was not strapped down this time. His left arm was gone, the stump wrapped in a clean white bandage. It hurt to look at it, so he kept his eyes and mind elsewhere. He didn't know how he had come to be here, or what had happened to his arm. They had only cut away the dead and frostbitten flesh. Something with falling, he thought. It probably didn't matter._

_Food was slid under the door twice a day. The doctor checked his arm for infection every day. Other than that, his days were empty. His mind wandered without tether for hours at a time. He remembered that he had fallen from a train, into a ravine. It was a long distance. He had no idea how he had survived. He had tried to catch onto something as he fell, and his arm had been badly injured. It had not had any sensation, except an overwhelming throbbing, when he had woken up at the bottom._

_He supposed he was a prisoner of war. He didn't understand why he was kept here, alone, all of the time. He longed to be allowed out of the room, if only for a little while. Sometimes, he got upset and ran around, striking the walls with his remaining fist and shouting. But most of the time he sat in silence. No one spoke to him in either case._

_He waited. It took a while for him to admit to himself what he waited for. As the days passed, hope faded. There was no reason for anyone to think he had lived through such a fall. Steve would not search for him, would not appear out of nowhere from across an ocean to save him. He was lost. Until the war ended, at least. He had no idea how it was going. He and the Commandos had been fairly successful at neutralizing the threat of Hydra, but who knew what was happening now._

_Their last mission had been to take Dr. Zola alive. He remembered the man from the prison camp. He hadn't told Steve that he had been the one conducting the experimentation. He hadn't told Steve about that part, either. Steve might not be able to approach the mission clearly with that knowledge. He could only hope that his friend was successful, and that maybe he would see him again when he was released from this place._

* * *

He had never been released. Zola had escaped somehow and managed to find him, after an interminable length of time alone in that cell. It was that man who had begun to program him, to make him into what he was today. It was he who had wiped his mind of his memories and turned him into a weapon. But it was Steve who had not come.


	14. I am trying to believe

**A/N: Final chapter! I usually edit and post after work, but I'm not going to be around this afternoon, so I figured I'd post it earlier rather than late :) Thank you again for all the reviews and followers! I really appreciate it. I am contemplating a sequel as well as a side project set during the movie, so please keep an eye out for those. Enjoy!**

**14. I am trying to believe**

He stands on a balcony in Brooklyn, looking out across the city. It is early morning. He slept in an alley. Well, sleep is not the correct word. He dreamed of his past. He waits now, for the city to awaken so he can find where he wants to go. He knows it will be easier to get in during the day, when security is less automated. Where he plans to go would be considered a suicide mission amongst burglars. He is not a burglar, though.

When he sees the world waking up, he leaves his perch. He walks down to a bus stop and waits. Others join him. They all wait patiently. He boards the bus and selects a seat. It is early and many are empty. No one sits beside him, even when more passengers board and some must stand.

An hour later, he stands below a tower. It was Stark Tower, he knows, until the Battle of New York, as they are calling it. Now it is known as Avengers Tower, and the A is the only part of the huge letters that once spelled Stark. He knows that Steve, Captain America, is there. He is dressed in the uniform of a maintenance worker. He knows no one will give him a passing thought. People can be cruel sometimes.

He enters the building and makes his way upstairs. He is questioned. He is allowed to pass. He supposes that security does not need to be so very tight here; they have a Hulk, after all. No wonder they feel secure. So many of them are just men, though. They can die. They are skilled, but not special, not gods. He is skilled, too.

It takes him some time to bypass the access points and get to Steve's room. He must move through the hallways in silence, and is grateful that his supple boots allow him to do this. The door on Steve's room isn't locked. He isn't there. That suits him fine. He searches the room and settles down to wait beside the door. His mind drifts as he waits.

* * *

_The chip fell, and both of them jumped after it. They fought the whole way down. When they hit the glass of the dome, he clung to the chip with his right hand. It would be better in his left, but the man fought him with too much intensity for him to be able to switch. Somehow, he found himself in a headlock. The target choked him as he tried to wrest the little piece of technology from his hand. He reached to defend himself with his left arm, but the man pinned him down more thoroughly. He could not move, could barely breathe. Finally, he let go of the object as things were becoming black. The target grabbed it and left him lying there._

_He rolled over slowly, throat aching and arm throbbing. He can't move the latter. Unsteadily, he got to his feet. His mission was not over. With some difficulty, he found his pistol on the glass floor. Bending over to pick it up was very painful. He had to use his left arm. He straightened and looked for his target._

_He fired his weapon, hitting the man. He held his likely-broken right arm close to his chest in order to reduce the pain. The target fell, then dragged himself upward and onto the platform. He shot again and again. But whatever the man's goal was with the chips, he was apparently successful. He heard him talking to someone over a radio, giving orders. Then, suddenly, there was mayhem everywhere. The other helicarriers have targeted this one. They were firing, smoke filling the air as the metal structure of the ship began to fall._

_Without warning, he found himself trapped. A huge beam knocked him down, the wind escaped his lungs. When he had caught his breath, he could see that a twisted piece of wreckage had fallen and pinned him to the glass dome. He struggled, but to no avail. Something like panic began to flit around his mind. This was not a situation in which he had found himself before. Where was his support team? Where were his handlers? He didn't know, couldn't expect them to come for him. He had failed his mission. He was a defective weapon. There was no reason for anyone to rescue him._

_A thud nearby brought him out of his thoughts. He looked over and saw the man he had shot bending double nearby. The man straightened and walked closer. He eyed him warily; struggling again as he considered what he might do when he reached his helpless opponent. He thought of what he would do. To his consternation, the man lifted the beam off the floor, growling with the effort. He slid out from under it, watching carefully._

_"You know me," the target said, almost impatiently._

_"No, I don't," he snarled, swinging his arm toward the other man. The force caused him to drop to his knees when he missed._

_"Bucky. You've known me your whole life," he insisted. He struck again, making contact this time. _

_ "__Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," he said._

_"__Shut up!" he cried, making contact with the man's shield._

_" __I'm not going to fight you," the man told him. He let his shield fall away into the water below. "You are my friend."_

_He attacked. He didn't know what else to do. "You're my mission," he snarled, leaning close, then backing up to repeat the statement, punctuated by blows. The man did not defend himself._

_ "__Then finish it," he said resignedly. "Because I'm with you until the end of the line."_

_He stared down at the man, his left arm poised to strike. But there was something familiar about him; he knew he'd heard that phrase before. But when? He racked his unresponsive brain for answers. There were none. But he was convinced he knew him. His superiors were the only men he had ever recognized; who was this man? Why did he not leave him trapped and helpless?_

* * *

The room is dark. It is fifteen feet by twelve feet. There is an attached bathroom. A bed, a desk with a chair, a dresser, and a television are the only furniture. The room is spotless. There are no clothes lying around. The bed is made. There isn't any dust. The clutter on the desk and dresser is carefully arranged. He has checked the closet and found it equally in order. He waits in the darkness. He is patient. He knows Steve will come back – this time.

He has removed the uniform. Under it, he wears his mission gear. He did not want to wear any of the clothes he had stolen. These are comfortable and useful. While he waits, he practices knife moves. His right arm is feeling better; he is almost back to his old speed. His ribs no longer ache. He is sure they will break if struck again, though. He doesn't care.

Footsteps are audible in the hallway. He freezes, pressing his body against the wall beside the door, where he can quickly disarm anyone who enters. Voices can be heard, chatting calmly. They walk by. He does not know who they are. Steve's voice could not be heard, though. He waits.

* * *

"How about that cute girl from where you got those pants?" a female voice asks, muffled somewhat by the wall.

"I don't know," Steve says, long-suffering. "Are you ever going to leave me alone?"

"You are alone. That's your problem," she replies. Natasha Romanov, he remembers suddenly. Five foot six, one hundred twenty pounds, age unknown.

"Nat, can we talk about this some other day?" he says with a sigh.

"Fine, go hide in your room like a coward. You know where we will be," she teases. There was a pause and he tensed. "You did everything you could, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Steve mumbles.

The handle turned. He had moved to the other side of the door, so it covers him when it is opened. Luckily, Steve does not open it all the way, and pushes it closed without a glance around. He walks over to his desk chair and drops into it with a heavy sigh. He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. Watching him defeated, he does what he came here to do.

* * *

"I know you," he says stepping forward.

Steve jumps, looking up in surprise. Several different emotions cross his face after the initial shock. "Yes," he says slowly, then more adamantly. "Yes, your whole life."

"I'm older than you," he replies, cocking his head.

Steve smiles tentatively. "Just a little older. We've been friends since we were kids, and all through the war."

"I remember."

"You do?" he asks, surprised.

He shrugs. "Some of it. It's messy," he adds, motioning towards his head.

"It's wonderful to see you, Bucky," Steve begins.

"Not Bucky," he replies sharply. Steve stares at him, deflated. "Bucky isn't here anymore."

"Alright." He runs his hand through his hair. "Do you want me to call you Winter Soldier?"

"No!" The word rings out and they are both silent for several moments. He takes a deep breath. "Call me James," he offers.

Steve stands and steps toward him. He resists the urge to jump away. Steven extended his hand. "Welcome to Avengers Tower, James."

He tentatively reaches out, then clasps his hand and gives it a good shake. "Thank you, Steve." They smile.


End file.
